


My Only Heaven, Is When I'm With You

by Ecrivaisseur



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M, Mild Smut, More internal, Obsession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5602732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ecrivaisseur/pseuds/Ecrivaisseur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's like no other woman he's ever been with before (and he's been with a lot of women); the faintest touch of her skin could send him skyrocketing into Heaven, the very gaze of her beautiful eyes could make him melt. She has no idea the power she holds over him - he wants more. He wants her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Only Heaven, Is When I'm With You

**Author's Note:**

> Mad Men, One-shot.

His pen scribbles furiously across the paper on his desk, the ink trailing behind it like rivers of ebony against a stark, white backdrop, making permanent on the crisp sheet the thoughts in his head. The ideas that explode in his mind never stay long, in an instant they appear and in an instant they disappear, and he has to capture them as fast as he can. It was something he was used to by now, after all these years in this business, but it never got any easier.

Perhaps it was the thrill of capturing something before it escapes that made part of being an ad-man so alluring to him.

But, in an instant, his hand jerks to a stop as the words cease on the page, his gaze suddenly drawn elsewhere. His head still bent over his desk, his dark eyes dart up straight ahead as _she_ walks by his door, strutting her buxom figure across the opening in the wall like the determined woman she was, captivating all who laid eyes on her. He can hear the tapping of her heels as she moves by and then off somewhere else, down in the hall, walking further and further away from him.

She was only there for a second. . . but that was all that he needed to notice her. Like a rare, beautiful beast in the wild, Donald Draper _always_ noticed Joan Holloway.

Just like that, his previous ideas have vanished into thin air, as his mind is now occupied with thoughts only of her: her titan auburn locks of silky hair, wrapped into the shape of a bun, shinning like the morning sun under the bright, ceiling lights; those intense eyes, a pool of deep emerald blue shades that shimmered lovingly at all who looked at them like mounted gemstones; fair, pale skin, smooth and fine like that of one of his daughter’s dolls, and soft to the touch; lips, firm and plush, though warm and inviting in their shade of golden red. She was one of the most stunning creatures he'd ever laid eyes on. 

Anyone could understand why she led a trail of drooling admirers behind her, lost in her complete beauty, and captivated that such a goddess could exist. Don, himself, could easily understand why every man in the office swooned when she entered the room - she was the human embodiment of a swan.

Alas, she was the only existing thought in Don’s mind that he had never been able to capture; never been able to latch onto by his hands and hold onto forever.

In fact, he was sure no one had ever been, or ever would be, able to catch her. Not unless she wanted them to, and, even then. She would always be a fiery tigress to hold down.

Joan Holloway was unlike any woman Don had ever been with before; unlike any woman he’d ever even _seen_ before. Truly radiant as she was, Joan was the polar opposite of both women he’d married: a fiery, curvy red-head, while he’d married a sharp-tongued, blonde housewife and a skinny, brunette actress. Looking back, it was interesting to see how he’d chosen the women of his life; usually his manhood had told him who he’d be sleeping with next. But, to be entirely honest, he wasn’t entirely sure how he had ended up with all the women he had, himself.

Sex, of course, had always been good, too, with all of the women he was with. He always knew how to pick them.

But, when it came to Joan, he’d didn’t realize just how good it could be.

It had been a few days over a month ago, the two had been sitting at a bar, drinking, after just having test-driven a steaming-red Jaguar. Don had already been turned on to her since earlier that day, back at the Jaguar display store, when they pretended to be a married couple, and that, coupled with the few glasses of alcohol he’d had already, caused his attraction to the woman beside him to intensify.

Don remembered thinking Mr. Harris, Joan’s husband, was an idiot. He’d just served her with divorce papers earlier that morning at the office, and Don had been only too happy to swoop in and offer her his shoulder.

After several drinks at the bar, they both found themselves in one of the empty, backroom closets, the lights-out and the wooden door barred with a broom. Moving over a pile of bottles and a mop, within moments Joan was up agains the wall, Don behind her, and her skin-tight skirt pushed up to her waist and their lips pressing into each other’s. It was only a few seconds before Don was inside of her, thinking he knew exactly what was going to happen. He’d been inside many, many women and, though it was a feeling he certainly never tired of, he definitely was used to experiencing the sensation.

However, when he’d first penetrated Joan’s body, he felt like he’d left this universe and skyrocketed into Heaven. It was indescribable how he’d felt. . . he wasn’t sure that, even as an ad-man, he’d be able to describe, in words, what it was like to be inside of Joan.

That’d had been their first time, and, as Don now realizes, their only time. He’d dreamed about it almost every night since then. Dreamed about _them_ ; the dreams felt so real, that sometimes he mistook them for reality.

Suddenly, he realizes an increasing urgency inside of him, an urgency for more of the woman that just passed by him. An urgency for her again; her body, her beauty; her touch. Usually, the women he slept with would always crawl back to him a day or two later. He’s too irresistible a man not to, he's come to discover. But that’s certainly not the case with Joan. She hasn’t even looked at him differently once since that night, as if nothing happened between them.

It makes that yearning for her inside of him grow even more.

Don sets his pencil down. He can’t take the wanting anymore. . .

He gets up from his desk, and hastily exists his office, escaping down the hallway where he eventually tracks her down to her office, at the center of the whole floor. It was fitting, really, the location of the room: an office at the center of the floor, for the woman who was at the center of the company.

She sits, at her desk, looking over some documents, not noticing him enter the room until he closes the door behind him. “Don?” she asks, her eyes filled with curiosity as she looks up at him and bats her eyelashes. _Like she doesn’t know what this is about_ , the man thinks to himself as he hurries into a chair in front of her.

“What is it?” Her voice. . . she’s practically captured him just by speaking. Her soothing, high-pitched voice makes the beast inside of him roar.

“Joan” He shakes in his seat, having never done this before. He would, usually, never do this before for any other girl. He never went to them, but, then again, Joan wasn’t like any usual girl. “I - I need you.”

“Is there a problem?” she asks, her head tilting to a slight. _Does she want me to beg_?

“Yes, there is,” he rises up from the chair, and approaches her. His pulses races as his breathing quickens. A drop of sweat finds its way onto his brow, as his feet move across the sleek floor, until he is standing only an inch away from her body.

She ascends from her seat, as well, and, though it’s only an ordinary grey office chair, her posture makes it look like its a throne she rising up from and she's its gorgeous queen. “You look terrible,” she say, pressing a soft hand against his forehead, “Are you sick?”

“Yes, I am. I'm sick _for you_ ,” he plants two hands on her hips, not bothering to worry about anyone nearby hearing them, as he yanks her body up against his and plants a long, heavy kiss onto her face. Taken by surprise, at first she doesn’t resist, though after a moment she pulls away.

“You’re married, Don,” she wipes her lips, her voice quieter than it was before, “And, technically, so am I for another four weeks.” She looks at him with that disapproving expression that, once long ago would’ve scared him, but now only eggs him on even more.

“It didn’t bother you that night,” he replies, not letting go of her waist, instead gripping them tighter. She doesn’t bother to try and escape.

“We were both drunk and weren’t thinking. It was a - ”

“Don’t you dare tell me that was a mistake. Don’t you dare, Joan,” they both fall silent, before Don speaks again, “I can’t stop thinking about you. I miss you. . . _us_. . .”

Silence resumes, and, like that, he can feel the stern, distant exterior he usually wears crack and shatter, as his will caves to her’s. Were it any other woman, Don would’ve just as easily been able to charm them back into his bed. But Joan wasn’t like any other woman.

And he’d do anything to feel the warmth of her body again. “Joan?”

She doesn’t reply, and they stare at each other for a moment, completely oblivious to the hurried-busy atmosphere around them, their eyes melting together in that instant. Hearts pounding, breaths starting to hasten, pulse skyrocketing, _why had they ever even left each other's arms in the first place_?

Their lips meet, briefly, not nearly as long as Don would like them to. The taste hangs on the edges of his thin lips as, before he knows it, she’s sprawled out on her desk and he’s inside of her, thrusting his hips firmly against her waist as his hands cup her bouncing breasts tightly, never wanting to let go. Her legs rise up in the air, arched over his shoulder, as he bends his back forward and sprays a field of sporadic kisses across her bare chest.

She runs her fingers through his slicked back hair, rustling it from its carefully placed position as she kisses his cheek softly. Though he spends considerable time on his hair in the mornings, Don doesn’t care. Not when its her hands that are touching him, soft and delicate as they are, sending shivers down his spine.

She moans; women always do when he's inside of them, but her’s aren’t loud and agonizing like their’s are. The noises escaping from her lips are soft and muted - conscious that they are nearby many, many people.

However, like that, it’s all over, and he’s reached that infamous climax all men aspire to. Pleasurable and delightful, he shudders as he releases his carry. Joan’s head falls back against the wooden table beneath her as she does the same.

Just like their kiss, it had ended before Don even realized it.  _Too soon_ , as always. But, when it came to Joan, any time he'd have the privilege of spending with her wouldn't be long enough. 

He lays down beside her on the desk, his fingers lacing into her’s. “Stay with me.”

She laughs. It was her cheerful, joyous laugh that he always heard echoing in the hallways loudly for everyone to hear. “We’re at work - we can’t very well spend the whole day here, passed out atop my desk.”

Their eyes meet again. “But we could.”

“But we _can’t_ ,” slowly she rises up and straightens her back, the flaps of her green dress flailing behind her. “Zip me,” she says, sweep back flowing hair and revealing the back of her neck and the zipper of her dress. She adjusts her necklace as she waits.

Don gives the exposed skin a gentle kiss as he fingers the zipper upwards. “I wish I could just take you back to my apartment and lock the two of us away for eternity. We’d be happy. . .”

Joan shook her head as she slid off the desk, her feet touching the floor as she, in one quick motion, moved her body over to a mirror hanging on the wall. “We both know that’s not true. You’d get tired of me sooner or later. We’ve worked together for over a decade, Don. I know how you go through women. You would never be satisfied with me.” She collected the loose strands of her hair together, and swept them back up into a bun.

“That’s not true,” he smiles a warm grin at her, buttoning his shirt, though he doesn’t say anything more. There's no use, he won’t win this argument. He knows he won’t.

She smiles back at him in the mirror. "But it is," she dips a hand into her purse that sits just below it and pulls out a brightly-colored lipstick. "Donald Draper, I've enjoyed every moment we've spent together," she presses her lips outwards as she reapplies her lipstick, "But we both also know that this can never, ever happen again." 

Don looks at her with sad eyes. She's right. She will always be right. 


End file.
